


Picking up what's left

by wyvernisgod



Category: The Suicide Theory (2014)
Genre: AU, Gen, I just want them to be happy is that too much to ask, Like a serious tweakin of the canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 14:39:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5874472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyvernisgod/pseuds/wyvernisgod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Annie dies, and Steven grieves. Percival and his boyfriend live upstairs from them, and sometimes Steven can hear what used to be.</p><p>Edit: This work has been redone, meaning it's bigger and better! Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picking up what's left

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually my first time writing for anything besides Homestuck, but I really love this movie and had to write something for it. Maybe I'll write another later, who knows?
> 
> Edit: this work has been REVAMPED, which means I've gone over it and made it SO MUCH BETTER! Thank you for reading it, it means so much-- and drop a comment if you liked it, please!

If you had asked Steven what day it was, he couldn't have told you. Time seemed to speed up and slow down as he drank, and drinking was all he had been doing for the last… however long it had been since the funeral. There would be a beep from some long forgotten digital watch shoved into a corner, and he would glare at the clock through gritty eyes, not really seeing it, and that's all the interaction he had with time. The hands moved steadily onwards, but he was far in the past, untouched by the sun or the moving world around him. Thoughts slipped out of his head like water, and all he could really remember was that Annie was dead, and so was his child.  
In the beginning, after he had come home from the hospital, nothing could numb him enough to forget those two things, not even booze. There were reminders at every turn, traps that he always fell into, salt in his wounds to make sure they didn’t heal.

Sometimes, he would breathe in and swear she was there, just around the corner in the other room, because he could smell her perfume, her shampoo, hear her laugh floating through the open door-- and then he would breathe out and remember that she was dead. It always hit him like a sledgehammer to the chest, the realization, no matter how many times he had it. Other times, he would black out and wake up on his side on the floor, heaving for breath, and stagger to the bathroom to glare at his tear-streaked face like he was facing down her murderer.

  
There hasn't been a murderer, of course. He wouldn't be sitting in his apartment if there had been. If there was blame, Steven could put it on their child, and a heaping of bad luck and complications that made him physically ill to think about. But he couldn't shake the feeling that it was all his fault, no matter how many times the doctors had told him he couldn't have done anything. He had been with her the whole time, been by her side, held her hand only a few minutes before-- how could he not feel guilty?  
The cradle in the middle of the sitting room only served as a reminder of what could have been. He couldn't bear to throw it away, just like he couldn't sort through her things, or read the books she always left lying around-- if he touched nothing, he could pretend that everything was still okay. Wearing his wedding ring was too much, though; he kept it in the drawer next to his bed, unable to look at it.

  
After the funeral it had only gotten worse, somehow. It had rained the day he buried Annie and their child, a gentle drizzle that coated everything in a forgiving shroud of dew. Steven had stood motionless at the edge of the grave with some of their (her, not his, never his) friends around him, providing what little comfort they could give. The sickly sweet smell of roses and lilies fought with the dull, almost primal smell of dirt and water the rain seemed to bring. Every rose was a perfect red, bottoms all cut, freshly bought from the florist around the corner; the lilies a somber white, slightly wilted in the rain. He put a bouquet on the coffin to bury with Annie and the child, and all Steven could think was that the flowers would just rot with the two of them, down in the dark. The world had swirled around him, and before he knew it he was on his hands and knees outside the gates, heaving into the bushes.

  
After he had gotten home, he sat on the couch and drank, trying to drown out the pain. He went through a bottle of something (he didn’t taste it on the way down) before he passed out, sliding to the floor in a graceless heap. When he woke up in a pool of vomit, coating his only tuxedo, the pain was still there, wearing her face and her smile and holding a baby that he would never meet. He retched, his stomach turning, and only got up to clean it when the smell became unbearable.

  
His only trips out were for alcohol, ice cream, and smokes, and if the guy at the counter gave him a worried look and people crossed the street when they saw him coming and he thought blandly about throwing himself in front of a car every so often, so what? He was grieving. He was allowed to do that, right?

  
He had lost weight since the funeral, he knew, but he couldn't really bring himself to care. His cheekbones felt sharp, and his bones rubbed against each other when he moved, and the numbers on the bathroom scale went down, down, down. Eventually, he stopped stepping on it at all, buying more ice cream and some chips to reassure himself that he was fine. He ate them even though he wasn’t hungry, chasing the sweet and salty with burning liquor that always showed back up.

  
There were probably a lot of things he had lost in however long it had been, including friends and his job. He didn't know what was going on in the world outside the apartment, except for one thing-- his upstairs neighbors. He didn't know much about them, except that one of them was named Percival, and that they were gay. Neither of those things had mattered to Steven, and he would have left them well enough alone given the chance. Annie, though, she had gotten along with both of them quite well, so he had smiled and gone along with it. They were usually up at all hours, laughing and running around and sometimes shaking the bed, but he had done those things too, once, so it only seemed fair not to ask them to stop.

  
Now, his mornings and nights and every moment in between were filled to bursting with loneliness. Every time he heard them upstairs, it only reminded him of what had been, and sometimes it was too much to bear. Today they were almost stomping on the floor, loud and brightly obnoxious, and his headache pounded so badly that he couldn’t go on. Steven fumbled for his coat, fishing his dusty keys out of one of the pockets, and stumbled up the stairs to knock at their door, gritting his teeth against the lights and noise of the hallway. Percival answered (and yes, now Steven remembered; he had been in some kind of accident when he was younger, had been scarred quite badly, but he didn't seem self conscious about it at all), face flushed and breathing a little hard. Steven spoke first, slurring his words in an attempt to communicate. "You're-- th' noise you're making's keepin' me awake. Could you tone it down some?"

  
Percival looked surprised, and then abashed, and smiled at Steven apologetically. "Oh, yeah. Sorry about that, we, uh... We'll keep it down." Steven nodded, clutching at the wall to keep himself upright, and Percival hesitated. "Uh, do you need someone to walk you back to your apartment? You look... Pretty smashed."

  
A voice from farther in the apartment drifted over them, and Percival turned as it did. "Perce, what are you doing? Who's at the door?"

  
Percival called back, "It's our neighbor from downstairs-- you remember Steven?" There was a pause, and then the voice came back, a little closer and much more hesitant. "Yeah. Is he, uh, is he okay?"

  
Steven spoke, impatient to get back to his apartment and his glass of whiskey (the memories and pain were becoming clearer without the alcohol-- they had been getting better at that recently, and the drinking didn't seem to be doing much to help). "I'm just here t' ask you two to stop making so much fuckin' noise. 's been keepin' me up for days."

  
The other voice appeared, a taller man who looked like he had tasted something sour. He nodded at Steven, murmuring, "Sorry about that. Perce, are you going to walk him down? We need some milk anyway, wanna go to the store and get some?"

  
Percival nodded, and stepped out, closing the door behind him. Steven swayed on his spot next to the wall, unable to make sense of much of the conversation. He was dimly aware that someone-- Percival-- was saying something, but a rushing wave of blackness silenced him.  
Unfortunately, it receded, and Steven found himself face-down on his own carpet with a concerned Percival above him. He managed to drag himself into a sitting position, head lolling around to watch the other man silently. Percival stood, hurrying to the sink, and returned in a moment with a glass of water. While Steven drank it, suddenly mindful of the dryness of his throat, Percival spoke. “I’m sorry about… well, everything. We didn’t quite make it around to getting you that care package, huh? Some neighbors we are. I-- we--”

  
He seemed to struggle for words, but Steven was stuck on what he had said, and muttered, with difficulty, “You… care package? Wha-- what the fuck’re you talkin’ about?”

  
Percival looked up, surprised, and said, “Well, at the funeral we said we would bring you down some food, tidy up the place, if you wanted. You ran off before we could help you back, but you seem to be… doing well for yourself. Do you… get drunk like this often?”

  
Steven laughed, and it turned into coughing, which turned briefly into gagging before he got it under control. “Nope. One time occ-- occur-- one time thing, this. Get home, now. ‘m sure your boyfriend’s waiting for you.” Percival hesitated, helping Steven to his feet. They swayed for a moment, a single entity, and then they were separate, Steven putting a hand on his counter to steady himself. Percival nodded, murmuring softly, “See you, then. We’ll be down to visit soon.”

  
The world was fading at the edges, so Steven didn't really know what he said-- there was silence, for a while, and peace in the silence. And then he woke up, with a soft bed underneath him. He braced for the hangover that always followed him into the waking hours, but he only found a slight throbbing behind his temples.

  
When he finally got out of bed, he knocked over a glass sitting on his bedside table. He cursed, but the glass prompted the memories of the night before: Percival had gotten him back to his apartment, and he had made him drink a glass of water before leaving. He had said something about-- but that didn't matter. The conversation was lost to a memory soaked in booze, and Steven shrugged it off to focus on how he was feeling.

  
With the amount of alcohol in his system, he was both impressed and relieved that he hadn't thrown any of it up-- the only thing worse than a hangover was vomit.  
His room was cluttered, filled with rumpled clothes and scattered books and empty bottles that gleamed from their places on the floor. The curtains had been over the windows for months now, dusty red cloth that tinted what little light they let in. Everything was a shade of red, maroon in the corners to a weak coral on the edges of the bed nearest to the windows. A puddle of water glistened like fresh blood on the floor, a delicate burgundy mirror that faded as the carpet soaked it up. Steven made his way to the bathroom, flicking on the light and squinting at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Here, the light was bright white, objects standing out among the tiles and linen. A toothbrush, a comb, a razor, a bottle of pills. Steven himself, all sharp lines and sunken flesh held up by a shirt and pants. His reflection didn't bother him much anymore, not as long as he didn't look too deeply. It was better to convince himself everything was as it had always been. Including the books and clothes that he didn't dare touch. Including the cradle in the middle of the living room, empty save the dust and flies. Including the two upstairs, who had everything and more in each other.  
The pain in his chest constricted, and he decided that drinking during the day was perfectly acceptable in situations like these.

  
\----------------

  
Soon after that, the noises from upstairs stopped. Steven didn't know how long ago the quiet had begun, but it was almost worse than the constant noise. Sometimes this happened-- one of the two men left for a few days, and the room was blissfully silent, and they always came back.  
This time was different, though. There had been nothing, not a loud laugh, not a creaking of the bed, not so much as a footstep for the last two hours. Sitting on the couch, surrounded by the smell of smoke and stale alcohol, Steven felt almost nervous, straining to hear something, anything, that signified life from upstairs. He couldn't shake the feeling that something was terribly, horribly wrong.

  
The silence stretched out, long and painfully stoic. Steven finished his bottle (beer, this time) and stood, not really understanding what he was doing until it was already in motion. He grabbed his coat (he was always cold, now), lurching forward, and headed for the door. It was dark out, street lights shining wetly through the glass, and the sound of rain followed him down the hall, soft and persistent. It reminded him of the funeral, and that thought alone made him want a drink, but he kept going anyway. The stairs left him breathless, so by the time he knocked on Percival's door, he was panting slightly.

  
There was no answer.

  
He knocked again, louder and more insistent this time. There was nothing, not even a stirring behind the door.

  
It was entirely possible that no one was home. After all, the two men weren't like him-- they probably had lives and friends to spend time with. But Steven couldn't shake that feeling, even as he turned to leave, and he sighed before knocking insistently a third time. This time, a voice wobbled under the door, weak and full of tears. "What do you want?"  
When Steven spoke, his voice was rough, and he winced upon hearing it. "Are you alright in there, mate?"

  
There was no response. After a few minutes, Steven knocked again, loud and sharp in the silence of the evening. "Percival. I know you're there. Answer me, are you alright?"

  
The answer came after a moment's pause, slightly duller than before. "I'm fine. Leave me alone."

  
Steven hesitated, knuckles poised over the door, and called through the wood, "Can you at least open the fucking door and let me know you're okay?"

  
He didn't know why he cared. Maybe it was because of that night when Percival had helped him back to his room, a weak attempt at a return of kindness. Maybe it was because of Annie, and what he had been through after she had died-- people in mourning could sense one another, he knew. He sometimes looked at a man or a woman on the street and knew if they'd lost someone, could sense it. Something in the way they walked, the tone of their voice, the feeling of incompleteness they carried with them. He wore it like a coat, a spiky coat that kept people away; others wore it as a crown, a testament to their ability to live and overcome life’s challenges. But some people, some people struggled with it, found it as a weight tied to their chest, unable to breathe as it dragged them down. Around those people, the word loss rose effortlessly to the front of Steven’s mind. This felt like one of those times.

  
Maybe that was the feeling running down his spine: loss. Maybe Percival had lost a sibling, a parent? But there was something else there, too, sinister, amplified by the dark pressing down on them from all sides.

  
Percival still hadn't answered. Steven licked his lips and leaned close to the door, saying, "Percival, open the fucking door. Please."

  
There was a crash from inside, like someone had knocked over a lamp, and Steven's hand flew to the doorknob, finding it open. He shoved the door out of the way, looking into the gloomy apartment, and was greeted with a terrible sight-- Percival, frozen in the middle of stepping out of his window, a bucket of brushes and paints scattered on the floor. There was a moment of nothing that stretched into forever, and then things kicked into triple time. Steven crossed the room in what felt like a blink, grabbing the material of Percival's shirt and pulling him away from the window as hard as he could. Percival, on the other hand, had tried to push himself the opposite direction, and for a sickening moment it looked as though gravity would win. They teetered on the edge of the window for a moment before Steven gave a hard yank and they tumbled back into the apartment.  
They landed in a heap on the floor, and Steven was screaming, his voice hoarse as he smacked Percival uselessly with the palm of his hand. "What the fuck were you thinking?! You ready to kill yourself, is that it?? Jump out the fucking window and splatter your guts on the sidewalk, you goddamn fucking idiot!"

  
Percival was trying to fend off the attack, breathing in short pants, and eventually Steven had to stop, too worn out and shaken to continue. They lay on the floor for a minute, trying to recover, and just when Steven was about to start smacking sense into him, Percival started to cry. It caught Steven so off guard that he didn't say anything, just stared at the other man stupidly.

  
Percival's shoulders were shaking, and he clutched Steven's jacket like he was afraid the taller man would vanish if he let go. Steven’s hands flapped uselessly in the air, settling softly on Percival’s back. Eventually, the shorter man’s sobs receded enough for him to choke out, "Christopher is gone. He-- a hit and run, he was just crossing the street, and now he's gone, oh god he's gone and I didn't even get to say goodbye..."  
Steven understood immediately, both the sentence and Percival’s strange behavior-- the smell of alcohol on his breath was strong. He moved a hand awkwardly to Percival's shoulder, drawing the man into a hug, and swallowed past the lump in his throat to say, "I'm-- I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Percival."

  
They stayed like that for a few minutes, holding each other as if they could repair what was missing. Percival smelled like booze and green apple shampoo and rain, and his warmth was strangely comforting. Humans craved contact, Steven remembered-- they were pack animals, needing others to fully function.

  
They sat on the floor for a long time. Percival’s crying petered out into just shaking, and even that faded in due time. Steven shivered at the cold air blowing in through the open window, pulling himself closer to Percival. He didn't seem to mind-- his grip on Steven’s jacket tightened, even. Eventually, Percival collected himself enough to murmur, "I'm sorry. I-- thank you for pulling me from the window. I don't think I would have done it on my own."  
Steven remembered, dimly, a dripping razor and a wound across his wrist that had never fully healed. The puddle of water on his bedroom floor, so like blood, flashed into his mind, and he shivered. This time, it had nothing to do with the cold.

  
"You're welcome."

  
He didn't know what else to say, but it didn't appear that there was much else Percival wanted to hear. They hadn't moved from their position on the floor, and since neither of them seemed like they were going to move anytime soon, Steven shifted to be a little more comfortable, leaning into Percival as he untangled their legs. They sat together, listening to the rain as they tried to make sense of the world they were given-- one man full of scars, the other fresh wounds, leaning on each other for support. Outside, the rain fell, sad and dismal; but inside, they were dry, safe, with each other to rely on.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
